


Yield

by ladyofrosefire



Series: Reserve [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Body Paint, Collars, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Cunnilingus, D/s, Don't copy to another site, Exhibitionism, F/M, Hand Feeding, Kneeling, Power Exchange, Public Sex, crawling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 15:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: The conclusion to the Leylas/Essek series. He comes as her plaything to a party. Technically plotless, although the characterization follows from previous pieces





	Yield

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to sparxwrites for beta-reading. Glad you enjoyed the series.

Leylas watches from behind a carved screen as one of her handmaids sets her paintbrush to Essek’s shoulder. The woman pulls it away as he flinches, and then adds another curling line to the pattern spreading across his skin. She had worked her way up from his ankles, filling in scrollwork that snakes in lines of purple and black, shot through with glimmering silver over the cut of a hipbone, the graceful lines of his wrists, the slant of his collarbones. The paint matches the leather collar circling his throat with its elegant silver buckle and the matching band at the base of his cock. He has to fight to stand still while the handmaid finishes the final tapering curves at the back of his neck. Only his face, hands, and feet remain unmarked.

The handmaid sets down her brush, and Leylas steps out from around the screen, the long train of her dress sweeping along behind her. The dress is amethyst satin under a network of black leather and boning that nips in at her waist and supports her breasts, though the cups of the bodice barely cover her nipples. And while the rear half of the skirt trails, the front is cut high enough to tease anyone looking. 

She lets him look for a moment before tipping a palmful of powder into her hand from the jar beside the paints. A murmured word, and she blows, sending the powder drifting on a current of magic to settle evenly over Essek’s skin. For a moment, it flares, and then goes dark. When he brushes his hand against his other arm, the paint does not smear. 

“Only under another’s hands, Princeling.” She tilts her head. “You have a question. Speak.” 

“Whose hands will be on me, my queen?”

“I don’t share my toys, princeling. You have nothing to fear.” She runs her fingers through his hair and then tilts her head meaningfully. 

Essek folds to his knees at her feet. 

“Good boy.” 

Leylas picks up his mask from the table—black leather, silver filigree, and an enchantment worked into the metal. He holds it against his face while she fastens the buckle behind his head. 

“Let me show you— Darken,” she commands, and the eyeholes of the mask do exactly that. Essek stiffens momentarily and then lets out a slow breath. “Light,” she adds, and the enchantment returns to its resting state. “Do you consent?”

“I do.”

He had seen the leash sitting on the side table already. She clips it to the ring on his collar. It hangs there, gleaming in the soft candlelight. 

“You may walk until we reach the gathering.” Leylas affixes her mask with its high, curving horns, and then leads him from her dressing room.

They arrive at a large chamber, already populated by guests and servants alike. Scattered lights adorn the ceiling, and a large, moon-silver lamp casts a pool of light over Leylas’ chair. More lights twinkle on the walls and tables, giving the general impression that one stands in the midst of the night sky. A soft, thick carpet runs along specific pathways between the pieces of furniture, most of which are not couches or chairs. None of the more _ interesting _ pieces have seen use, yet, although the nobles have begun to circle and lay claim to first turn at favorites. Servants move among them, black-collared, black satin draped around their waists. There are others, too, wearing white collars and nothing else, already talking and laughing with the few unaccompanied nobles. Each of them has been thoroughly vetted and interviewed. Leylas has her personal favorite among them, although she does not bother searching for her, yet. 

“On your knees, princeling.”

He hesitates, just for a moment, before folding down to all fours. The edges of a blush creep out from under the mask. On another man, Leylas muses, that is the downside of the paint. But he is not the type to flush past his throat, so it’s no real loss. She reaches down to smooth his hair before wrapping the leash around her hand until it’s taut and leading him out into the chamber. 

There is a fine balance here, between the need to show respect and the unspoken agreement to pretend not to recognize each other. The nobles they pass nod, their eyes lingering on her, and on the pretty thing following at her heel. Leylas glances down toward Essek. Tension knots up his shoulders and back. It’s to be expected for his first attempt at a thing like this. 

“A pity,” she comments, just loudly enough for him to hear, “that Den Thelyss never saw fit to send you to one of these parties.”

“Perhaps, my queen.”

With a soft sigh, she settles into the throne-like chair set up at the head of the room. “Perhaps? You don’t think you would have found something you enjoyed here?” She gestures with one hand toward the cushion beside her seat. “Look for yourself.”

Essek makes himself as comfortable as he can, knees on the pillow, body angled toward her, but still facing the room at large. His eyes flick from person to person behind his mask and from group to group. With her in her seat observing, their activities can begin. Ropes come out, the sparse clothing afforded to some of the other submissive parties is whisked away. Soft moans start to fill the room. One of the white-collared attendees, a man perhaps Essek’s age, is pulled down to a couch, and a low cry comes from him a moment later as the noblewoman over him slips her hand between his legs. Essek’s throat works as he swallows. 

“Well?” she asks, reaching down to run her fingers through his hair. 

“With my… predilections, I do not think I would have found my place at anyone’s feet except yours,” he answers carefully. 

Leylas laughs softly. “I suppose not. Have you seen enough?” 

“Yes, my queen.”

“Good. Darken.” He stiffens, gasping, as his vision goes black again. Her fingers keep their rhythm in his hair. “Shh…”

Slowly, she eases him under. He was halfway there already and has been since she ordered her maid to put the band around his cock. All she needs to do is continue to play with his hair and let him listen to the room—the music filtering past the screens at the back wall, the building noises of pleasure from the room at large. With the mask’s eyes turned black, has to focus on those, and not the hungry gazes that return again and again to her claim painted on his skin. His cock stiffens, little by little. Every so often, there’s a sound, a sharper cry, a whimper, and he shudders under her hand.

The paint is still perfect. Leylas considers drawing a fresh pattern through it, but it’s a shame to ruin her handmaid’s hard work so early in the evening. She curls her fingers into the longest part of his hair, instead, and tips his head back. 

“Rise,” she orders. Between her hand and the tug on the leash, she draws him to his feet. He goes, stumbling a little, and catches himself with a hand on the arm of her chair. “That’s alright. Shh… open your mouth. Good boy.” 

Essek’s can’t stop himself from whining without pressing his lips together, and that would mean disobeying. A few of the nearest nobles glance over at the sound. From this angle, the only view they have is of his back and his well-formed ass. Leylas smiles to herself and releases his hair in favor of running her index finger over his lower lip. Then she tugs down one of the cups of her dress. With a finger in the loop of Essek’s collar, she draws him down until his mouth meets her nipple. 

“Lick.” 

His tongue works against her, slow and quick by turns, circling and flicking. She gets soft sounds from him, little noises born from focus rather than effort. He is, she thinks with some amount of fondness, a very _ driven _ toy. 

Leylas watches the room over his shoulder, her free hand back in his hair. They have an audience, of course—mostly made up of those who came to this party alone, although one or two of the couples have shifted their activity. One lady Leylas recognizes as Nayara of Den Mirimm, a statuesque woman dressed in black leather with her long hair in a braid down her back, steps around behind the woman she has with her. Without taking her eyes from Leylas, she whispers something into her plaything’s ear and slips two gloved fingers into her cunt. Nayara lingers another moment before inclining her head respectfully—and then directing her attention to the thoroughly bound man lying a foot to her left. 

Essek makes another sound as Leylas draws him over to her other nipple. Idly, she lets her hand wander down his back, streaking through the careful designs. It occurs to her that she has not actually taken the time to _ touch _ him before. Now seems like as good a time as any. Purple, silver, and black blur together under her fingers as she drags them down his spine. When she reaches his ass, his tongue falters. 

“Continue…” she warns.

Her fingers linger at his tailbone, index rubbing up and down. He shifts, but does not lift his mouth from her skin, does not pull away. Deliberately, she drags all five fingers down his ass. A moan breaks from his throat, and he jerks. When she looks down, peering between their bodies, she finds him almost fully hard. She digs her nails in just at the top of his thigh, and he whines faintly against her skin. Smiling, she gives his ass a firm squeeze. Then she draws him off, keeping him close until she has tugged the cups of her dress back into place. 

“Good boy,” she murmurs, “kneel.” 

Leylas waits until he resettles on his cushion to Prestidigitation her hand clean again. Then she raises it, twitching a finger toward one of the black-collared servants. The man hurries to her, careful not to let the glasses on his tray slosh, and then goes to his knees at her feet, offering them up to her with his head bowed. 

She takes a goblet, her gaze barely leaving the assembly. “We require fruit. Go.”

The man murmurs a, “Yes, your majesty,” before hurrying away. 

In one corner, Nayara toys with the two playthings she has brought, circling them with a many-tailed whip in her hand. The woman she had been fingering earlier rides the man, her cries building as she drives herself to climax. When she slows, after, she catches the tails of the whip against her back. On a low couch, a woman wrapped in ropes wriggles on the lap of her partner, their hand between her thighs. A gag keeps her silent, although her expression communicates her pleading clearly enough. And a young man arches under the crackling wand his mistress brushes against his skin.

Leylas leaves the mask darkened and her hand in Essek’s hair as she watches the party and sips her wine. Their fruit arrives just as Nayara’s young woman comes again. By now, the others in the room have caught onto whose presentation has won by their queen’s estimation, but they have the good grace not to leave anything half-finished. Leylas spares them a glance and then selects a slice of dark plum. When she touches it to Essek’s lips, he opens them obediently and then bites down once she has half of it on his tongue. The juice of it runs over his mouth and her fingers. Leylas feeds him the second half of the slice and then slips her fingers into his mouth for him to lick clean. He sucks, a soft moan slipping out past his lips. 

The young woman comes again noisily just as Leylas slips another piece of fruit into Essek’s mouth. Nayara keeps her plaything in place until her partner has come, as well, and then gently eases her down. Leylas spares a moment to catch Nayara’s attention and give her an approving nod before turning her attention back to Essek. Her thumb brushes beneath his mouth and then back and forth across his lower lip. Automatically, his lips part for her. She brings her goblet to her lips and sips. Then she offers it to him—although ‘offers’ is perhaps not the right word for setting the rim of the goblet to his mouth and tipping it up so he must swallow or let wine spill down his chin. But he gives no sign of a desire to resist. If she unclouded the mask, she knows she would find his gaze unfocused and his eyes dark. But she does not. Not yet. 

Leylas slips Essek fruit and wine until Nayara arrives, her playthings at least somewhat recovered and following on their knees. She bows smoothly, and the man and woman behind her press their foreheads to the carpet. At her side, Essek shifts, not rousing, but not passive, either. 

“Quite a performance,” Leylas compliments, stroking Essek’s hair absently. 

Nayara smiles, “Thank you. Although my treasure did most of the work.” She glances toward the woman still prone on the carpet, and then back toward the throne. “Would you like to see her?”

“I would.”

Nayara barely has to click her fingers and the young woman, her treasure, rises to all fours and crawls forward. A yard from Leylas’ throne, she stops and, at another nearly silent command, rises up onto her knees, lacing her fingers together behind her head. 

Leylas looks for a moment, taking in the flush still staining the woman’s cheeks, her curves, the marks crisscrossing her skin from her mistress’s flogger, the half-dry marks on her thighs and her wet cunt. Then she leans down and whispers, “Lighten,” against the filigree of Essek’s mask. He raises his head as his vision returns, and Leylas steers him by the hair to look at the woman in front of them. 

“You were listening to her earlier,” she confides in a stage whisper. 

He tenses under her hold, glancing to one side, but otherwise managing not to squirm away from Nayara’s probing gaze. She takes him in from the mask to the paint to his leaking cock to the slight quiver in his thighs. Her smile widens. But she says nothing, and Essek holds himself in place. 

Slowly, Leylas tips his head up a few more degrees, enough that he has to look back at Nayara and watch that smile. His jaw clenches, and his cheeks go dark.

“What a well behaved pet…”

Leylas smiles. “He is,” she murmurs, slipping two fingers from her free hand into Essek’s mouth. She presses his tongue to the floor of his mouth and tightens her fingers in his hair until he moans. 

Nayara’s treasure shivers, just a little. Her remain dutifully fixed on the floor. But her mistress laughs softly and gently flicks the very ends of the flogger against her ass. “Weren’t you just telling me you’d had as much as you could take?” The woman nods, and Nayara gives a fond sigh. “She gets so sensitive. But put something pretty in front of her, and she just has to have it. He _ isn’t _ for you, treasure. Even if he looks… _ appetizing _.”

Essek sucks a little harder at the fingers in his mouth, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Another time, perhaps,” Leylas smiles. “I hope to see you both at our next gathering.”

“Of course.” Nayara bows, her treasure following suit, and then makes her way back to her section of the chamber. 

Leylas watches them leave. Then she draws Essek from his cushion to kneel between her legs. She shifts her grip on him, tipping his face up to hers with a hand beneath his chin and a finger hooked in the loop of his collar, although she keeps the leash laid across her palm. He stares up at her, mouth stained a deep purple, searching her face. 

“You’ve done very well,” she assures him. He melts into her hands as she moves a hand up to stroke his hair. “Tighten,” she orders, and the band on his cock obeys. 

Essek makes a strangled sound, his hips jerking. 

“Hush. We can’t have you coming early. What do you say, princeling?”

His jaw works. A fresh wave of heat spreads over his face. “…Thank you, my queen.”

“Good. I suggest you try to enjoy it.” Leylas leans back and spreads her legs. “If I am pleased, I will reward you. Make sure I’m pleased.”

“Yes, my queen.”

Essek braces his hands against the edge of her throne and then leans in. He starts with a soft, reverent kiss to her clit before his mouth opens and his tongue begins to work along the folds of her. She settles the hand with the leash on the arm of her chair, pulling the tether tight enough that the collar rides up. He makes a sound at that but does not falter. So she settles her free hand in his hair.

Leylas rocks her hips lazily against his mouth and scans the assembly. Save those few in blindfolds, all eyes have turned to them. As she watches, some of the nobles turn their playthings to tending to them, their hungry gazes on her, and on Essek’s back. 

She smiles. “You have quite an audience, princeling.” He lets out a muffled moan, and she laughs. “Continue.”

Essek moans again and then refocuses. His tongue travels up and down, around and around her clit before she tightens her fingers in his hair, and he sets his mouth to it directly. He gives it the same thorough attention he had given her nipples. Heat builds in her, quickening her breath so that the boning of her dress presses into her ribs. She hooks her legs over his shoulders and rides it out. Paint smears against her thighs and calves. The coil of heat in her tightens. She comes with Essek’s mouth on her clit and his tongue working inside the seal of his lips. 

Leylas draws a deep breath as she comes down, relaxing just enough to let Essek take one of his own. Then she pulls him in and down again until his tongue slips inside her. He moans, the sound running through her. Obligingly, he fucks his tongue into her, curling it up. It strokes and taps just a little way inside her, sending pleasure like bursts of light rolling up to her spine. Her back arches. This time, though, she breathes deep, calms herself. 

After a little while, she tugs at his hair. She steers him, and he laps at her, working his way slowly back up to her clit. He sucks and licks, soft noises of effort coming from him. She pushes him back down before he reaches her clit and, obediently, he thrusts his tongue into her again. This time, she keeps him there until the ache in her clit turns insistent and she can hear him laboring for breath. He gets only a moment before her fingers go vise-tight in his hair. She grinds against his mouth, his tongue. Her thighs tense, her hips flex, and she comes against his mouth again with a long, satisfied moan.

Leylas sits back with a sigh and looks at him. Her second climax had been a messy one, and Essek has wet streaked over the lower half of his face. The paint on his shoulders and back has blurred; in some places, it is gone entirely. With a gesture and quick prestidigitation, she vanishes it from her legs. Essek, though, she leaves debauched. He kneels in front of her, chest heaving and his cock smearing wet against his stomach. His tongue swipes across his lower lip, and he clears his throat.

“Yes?” she raises a brow.

“Have I served you well, my Queen?” 

“You have.” Leylas smiles and casts a meaningful look off to one side. “Would you like a reward?”

He follows her gaze toward Leylas’ favorite attendant and bites his lower lip hard, cock twitching. “—if—” he stumbles, looking at her wide-eyed, “if that pleases your majesty, then please.”

“It does.”

At a gesture, the white-collared woman to whom she had signaled approaches and kneels, bowing low. A knowing smile touches her mouth. Essek glances at her before he can stop himself. 

Leylas reaches down to cup his chin. “She is going to ride you. If you make her come without taking an age about it, you may, as well.” Releasing his face, she addresses the attendant. “You may touch him. Make sure I can see his face.” 

The leash unspools through Leylas’ fingers, and Essek shifts. Under the woman’s hands, he goes down onto his back before the throne. He jolts and moans as she climbs astride his hips, his cock just barely bumping against her. Leylas banishes the design covering it and then waves for her to continue. 

The attendant draws it out, taking him into her inch by inch, rocking her hips against his as she settles. Essek’s hands curl around her hips, fingers pressed into her skin. Already, the curling lines at his hips have run together. More paint rubs off on her thighs and on her hands as she braces them against Essek’s chest. She has no orders not to help him, so she moves atop him, moaning, head tossed back. 

One of Essek’s teeth sinks into his lower lip until it draws blood. Leylas smiles. He cannot come with the band in place, squeezing his throbbing cock, but that does not mean he does not want to. He drives his hips up, clutching at the woman on top of him. But, unlike Leylas, she has not been slowly warming to climax all night. 

“Princeling…” she twitches the leash she still holds. “Put your hands to use if you wish to come tonight.”

Immediately, he fumbles between them, grace and poise forgotten. It does not seem to matter. He rubs his fingers in tight circles, and the woman riding him cries out, back arching. She quickens her pace. Essek bites back a shout. His fingers do not leave her, even as her rhythm turns choppy. The feeling of her clenching on him must be exquisite agony. 

At the last moments, just as The woman’s moans taper off, Leylas gives another tug on the leash. Essek’s gaze fixes on her, fever-bright. 

“Come,” she commands, and the band goes slack. 

He does, a wordless cry breaking from him as he thrusts up a few final times. Leylas lets the woman continue to rock against him until his expression contorts, and then holds up a hand. 

“Enough. Go.” 

There are attendants waiting with towels to see to her, and others who may require her. Leylas concerns herself with the man lying crumpled at her feet. She waits until his labored breath has slowed before giving the leash another gentle tug. 

Essek pushes himself back to his knees with a soft groan and comes close, leaning gratefully against her thigh when she draws him down. 

“Thank you, my queen,” he pants. “Would you— what—”

“Shh… Darken.” Leylas commands the mask. Then she resumes the slow slide of her fingers through his hair. “Sit by me, princeling. Keep being good for me.”

He shivers and, blinded as he is, hides his face against her thigh. She allows it. He is, after all, hers. She may allow these people to watch and stare, but he belongs to her, and it pleases her to have him turn to her.

With a smile, Leylas turns to watch the remainder of the night’s events unfold.

**Author's Note:**

> The author thrives on comments. Emoji count, and guest comments are anonymous.  
🖤🖤🖤


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